The pre-publicity about today’s restaurant is given to gushing about “celebrity chef Tony Singh”. But what is a celebrity chef anyway? Singh’s CV boasts a TV show that I missed and a now-closed Edinburgh restaurant, a glass-and-steel eyrie that looked like the business class lounge at Dubrovnik airport. So I missed that, too.

Anyway, here is his Tasty, also the name of his book (me neither). I have a phobia of the word “tasty”, and, arriving at the Alea Casino, among the Costas and Chiquitos of Springfield Quay, I’m not sure it’s going away any time soon. Singh’s giant face beams out from the Alea’s plate-glass window, in case you’re under any illusions as to who to, um, credit for the place. I’ve been to Vegas, where celebrity chefs cluster like accountants on boybands and where casino restaurants are not necessarily an excuse for fish-in-barrel-shooting: Joël Robuchon at the MGM Grand, for instance, is an experience I’ll never forget. But the flat lighting, putty-coloured carpet and anorak’d punters of the Alea are a million miles from the strident bling of Sin City. Never has decadence looked so joyless.

Tasty is a lot more colourful, with its lavish use of gemstone hues, faux fretwork panels and massive mural of Singh, this time dangling crabs, but it still feels faintly municipal; the best feature is the view down the Clyde. His menu is larded with arse-clenching Weegie-isms: “pure stunning seabass”, “sounds mental but well tasty”, “cannae beat this”. By sticking to “Bits tae share” and avoiding the “Glasgvegas: gallus dishes with a bit of swagger” (all fillet steak and lobster thermidor), we hope to get the best of the place. We fail.

Curry of the day is “pork”. Just pork? “Yes, pork.” So we have “kai jeow goong”, a Thai street-food omelette, featuring two prawns, some peanuts, a lot of tired coriander and a sneeze of sriracha. Instead of fluffy inside and crisp at the edges, it’s as wizened and leathery as Mother Teresa. Glasgow seems to have overenthusiastically embraced that Québécois trashfest, poutine. Singh’s version – pallid, freezer-style chips with sub-Bisto brown stuff and nubbins of indeterminate cheddar rather than curds – is “pimped” with lobster, truffled mushrooms or (our choice) filet mignon, aka rubbery, grey strips of beef so overcooked, you mourn the cow that died in its name.

Astonishingly, those aren’t the worst dishes. “Korean burrito” is obese and clammy, with all the visual allure of a used nappy clogged with indeterminate vegetable matter; thanks to some mushy haddock, it has the fragrance of one, too. When the best thing you eat all night is a tandoori chicken pie, the tiny bastard child of a Scotch pie and a late-night takeaway topped with pickled onions and toothpasty raita, something is seriously amiss. The tomato sauce dispenser is a plastic raygun. Shoot me now.

Many of these dishes featured on Singh’s Edinburgh Road Trip pop-up, so he should have had the practice (a permanent, “fun” incarnation of said pop-up was due to open at the Apex Grassmarket earlier this week). But even a salad – “crispy, zingy and colourful with bang bang butternut squash” – tastes of nothing but onion and sesame oil. Dessert is a sundae of industrial, dusty-chocolate-studded ice-cream with “monkey blood sauce” (the chemical “raspberry” dribble of northern ice-cream vans). Tasty may well be going for comedic value, but the dubious taste might make even Dapper Laughs balk.

On the same visit to Glasgow, I go back to Mother India, where nobody’s face is plastered over the walls and the food is patter-free and excellent, especially a lamb raan, slow-cooked and vividly spiced. Maybe it’s just me; maybe it’s they who are missing the trick by not calling it something like Fancy A Quick Lamb Shank?

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Other Alea casinos in Nottingham and Manchester feature restaurants from Marco Pierre White and James Martin. Uh-huh. As we leave, I notice, past the dessert station full of penny tray-style sweeties, a full-sized cardboard cutout of Singh inviting us to have our photograph taken with him. Really? Really? Perhaps this is what defines the celebrity chef: the ego. The reality TV contestant’s blithe ability to self-congratulate and self-publicise. And the brassnecked capacity to put name above door without putting person in kitchen. “Food,” smarms the menu, “that gives you a hug and makes you smile.” Pal, all this gave me was a Glasgow kiss.